Carlotta: The Story of Her Life
by Rhona
Summary: *Chapter 4 and 10 are new.* A story about Carlotta, her life before she became Prima Donna and her past with Erik - the Phantom of the Opera.
1. Carlotta

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Please do not kill me! I have three guinea pigs to support.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
I stand on the edge of the lake unsure of why I am here. There are better things, more important things that I could be doing but I only want to be here. The mob has left. Little Giry has gone too. She showed me the mask and told me it was over. He was gone. I could have laughed. The Opera Ghost finally gone! I should be celebrating but all I want to do is cry. Carlotta wants to cry for the Phantom. How amusing! However, nobody knows the truth. You can make people believe what you want them to believe, even yourself.  
  
The water is cold as I attempt to swim across the lake but I am not bothered by it. What would he say? All the blubber on that whale should keep her warm, perhaps. I have to smile. Like a swan, I am more graceful in water than on land. It is not long before I am on the other side albeit soaking wet and in my chemise. I was not going to swim in my costume from the opera now, was I? A bitter laugh escapes my lips. All this for him and he thought I never cared.  
  
I enter his house and sit near the fire. Why am I doing this? I have to confess that I am not entirely sure. All the things from the past, my past, that I had long ago buried have come back to haunt me. Opera Ghost! You are most certainly a ghost, Erik, a ghost of my past.  
  
"Erik, my love." I say aloud. "Je t'aime."  
  
My name is not Carlotta, not really, but it has served me well for many years. It was my mother's name. She was a great woman. An Italian diva or so I was told. I sigh. A mother I never knew - dead before I was a month old. I was an only child and a grave disappointment. A daughter! What use could a daughter ever be? Yet my father did find uses for me. Like my mother, I had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face to match. They were my father's ticket to a better life. We were poor, my father and I. He used to have money and a beautiful house but somehow he had managed to lose it all. Life was one long struggle to survive. We travelled most of Europe, leaving behind our native Spain, doing what we could to make money. My father even tried to sell me when I was thirteen to an Englishman. I was naive enough at the time to think that the Englishman was going to take care of me. I said tried to sell but he did in fact sell me. As long as I live, I will not forget that night. Yet I managed to escape from him and my father. I travelled to Italy. For some reason I thought that I could be a singer just like my mother had been before she met my father. I did not seek fame or fortune. I wanted to be happy and singing was the only thing that did. For a time I was happy, alone and poor but happy.  
  
I was sixteen when I first met Erik. He was not much older than I was perhaps two or three months. Much like his little Christine, I too had started out as a chorus girl. My life was good even though I was living in wretched conditions and there was little money for food. I never sold myself as the other girls did. The memory of what had happened to me in my earlier years refused to leave. While they entertained their gentlemen and the opera house was deserted, I would go to the centre of the stage and sing. One night Erik heard me sing. He did not show himself preferring to remain in the shadows but he told me not to be afraid and that I had the most wonderful voice he had heard. Slowly we grew to be friends. At first, I would sing and he would just listen to me adding a few helpful comments when he thought it was necessary. We met every midnight on the roof talking about anything that took our fancy. I told him about myself, about my life and my father but he never told me much about his life. There was always a hidden sadness in his voice when he spoke of his past. Where he went during the day I did not know, I dared not ask, and where he slept at night was even more of a mystery. I considered him a good friend and feeling particularly bold on night, I asked him to share my home.  
  
"Carlotta?"  
  
I shook myself out of my thoughts, turning to look at him. He did not have his mask but I did not shudder, scream, or run away as many others have.  
  
"Hello Erik." He was astonished. How could Carlotta possibly know his name? I knew that he did not recognise me. I have changed a lot since we last met. "I suppose you will want to kill me now that I have seen your face or so the ballet rats have led me to believe."  
  
Whatever confusion he experienced was soon replaced by rage. I watched as he clenched his fists in frustration, taking large steps in my direction. Anyone else in my position would have run but I sat calmly knowing, in my heart at least, that he would not harm me.  
  
"Go, toad! Go and tell your precious managers that the Opera Ghost is very much alive. Perhaps they will end my suffering swiftly."  
  
I watched as he sat on the chair across from me. It was only in the light of the fire that I could see that he too had changed. He looked old and tired not the vibrant youth I had known so many years ago. I pitied him. A lot of his unhappiness was my fault. Oh, if I could go back and change history I would.  
  
Watching him, sitting in that chair, reminds me of when my home became his. I worked during the day, leaving before the sun rose and returning long after the sun had set. Erik would be sitting at the fire tired from whatever activities he had been engaged in, which usually involved preparing our supper. We would sit by the fire after eating and talk. It was the only time during those days in Italy that I ever spent with him. I know that those moments were precious to him but I also knew that it was enough. Erik was a complicated man. He needed his privacy yet he need to feel that he was not alone in the world. I doubt that anyone had cared for him previously though he had mentioned a mason who had been kind to him. He was not the only one who needed this security. I needed to feel that someone cared for me too. I asked him to hold me once. At first, he refused but one day he took me in his arms and held me. When he held me, I finally felt as though someone cared.  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
"I had to see the Opera Ghost for myself, this so-called Phantom who has had a whole opera house doing his bidding, the man who would dare to threaten La Carlotta, the one person I had expected to be better than this."  
  
He looked at me, eyebrows knit in deep thought. To say that he was perplexed would be an understatement. I knew things. How could Carlotta, who thinks of no one but herself, know anything about a ghost?  
  
"Have I wronged you in some previous existence?" He finally asked. I could not help but laugh at his words. He had not wronged me in a previous existence, far from it but I had most certainly wronged him. Maybe it was time that my own mask was to be removed.  
  
"Once upon a time I was called by a different name." Did I really want to relive the past? Please forgive me for what I am about to do, Erik, but it for our own good that I do this. "Once upon a time my name was Elisabetta." 


	2. Erik Phantom and Friend

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Please do not kill me! I have three guinea pigs to support.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
"Elisabetta? Elisa?" My Elisa? She was barely 18 when last I saw her. God she has changed! That girl, the little chorus girl with the sweetest voice I had ever heard grew up to be Carlotta? To think that I would spend days thinking about what happened to her and yet she was under my nose the entire time. I look at her with a hundred different emotions running through my mind. Should I be angry? Or happy? I am unsure of everything at the moment.  
  
"Erik?" I hear her say my name but do not respond. My thoughts dwell on the life I had with her, a terrible thing for a man who wishes to forget his past. She was beautiful. When first I saw her it was at a market in Venice more than thirty years ago, if I recall correctly. I followed her for days after that first encounter, discovering where she lived. The opera house, her place of work, became my home allowing me to be near her most of the time. From my hiding place above the stage, I would watch her in rehearsals practicing her scales or warming up for the ballet with the other girls. Her long black hair never hid her face; she preferred to wear it in single braid tied by a silk ribbon, which made her stand out from the other girls who preferred to wear their hair loose. Although she was of Spanish descent, so the gossiping ballerinas thought, she was pale and thin. It was hard to imagine that someone who resembled a porcelain doll could have such a powerful voice. She was full of surprise. A timid little mouse, she was, her head lowered to the floor afraid to look at any of the great singers lest the brilliant light that shone from those stars burn her. At night, when she believed that she was truly alone with only God to hear, she would come onto the stage and sing. I would sit and listen, losing myself in that heavenly voice. A shame she does not sing like that now. Can two so very different people actually be the same?  
  
"This is a cruel trick." I whisper vaguely aware that Carlotta… Elisa is now standing, gazing at me with intense eyes.  
  
"I assure you that it is no trick." She takes a step towards me; arms outstretched as a child begging for a mother's warm embrace would. "I am Elisabetta, your Elisa."  
  
I had no strength to resist her and found myself oddly comforted by the feel of her arms around my waist. My chin rested on her head as I brought her closer to my chest. Over thirty years ago, I had held her in the same manor. Such a small thing was an embrace, like a kiss. People hold each other for many reasons – for love, for comfort, out of fear, to say hello, to say goodbye. Few have ever held me, certainly not my mother the one person who should have. I think Elisa was the first person to ask me for this smallest of gestures. At first, I had refused her. Why am not quite sure, perhaps it was a natural response, but when she asked me again I did not refuse. Her brown eyes shone with gratitude that night and she smiled at me when I place a kiss upon her forehead. She smiled! I had seen her smile at me many times before – when I made her laugh, when I told her wonderful tales of different lands and when I sang to her – but to see her smile for a simple gesture was more than I had ever though possible.  
  
In the days that followed that embrace, we both felt that something about our relationship had changed. We were no longer passing acquaintances who met briefly like passing ships in the night, no, we had become much more than that. She was my friend, a true friend, the first friend I had ever known. In all my life, I have called few people friend, Giovanni, Nadir and even Christine in a strange sort of way, but Elisa was a different kind of friend. To me Giovanni and Nadir were mentors, the former a father figure and the latter, I would say teacher but in all honesty, I think I taught him more than he did me. No, Nadir was and is my conscience. Christine, loath as I am to think of our relationship in that way, was more of a daughter than friend or lover. Elisa was of my own age; we shared common interests, music, art, literature, and most of all we enjoyed each other's company. She told me things that I am sure she would never have told to another soul. We were, in my mind, friends.  
  
Nothing else in our lives changed. She continued to work at the opera, dancing and singing, pouring every essence of her being into what she loved. I admired her for that. I envied her for that. During the day, I would leave her… our little apartment to find what work I could, a hard task for a man who hides behind a mask. Usually I would go to the harbour to seek work unloading the ships. No one ever asked questions there, no one cared about my appearance so long as I kept my head down and finished my work. It brought in enough money to contribute to my keep. As tempting as it seemed to let Elisa care for me, for I knew she would, I knew that it was wrong. She worked hard to keep herself alive I could never have expected her to do the same for me.  
  
"Why did you come here, Elisa?" I have to know. There has to be a reason that she, of all people, is here now. Dear God, do not let it be more bad news. I am not sure that I could take any more today.  
  
"I am unsure." My eyes follow her as she sits down by the fire again. She is soaking wet, poor girl. I take my coat off and offer it to her. "Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"You should never have spoken to me that night." She smiles lost in thoughts of that disastrous night, I imagine. "The night I sang like a toad. Your voice! As long as I live, I will never forget that voice - the voice of an angel albeit an avenging angel ready to protect Christine."  
  
I cringe as she says that name. Christine. Has she come to torment me further? Have I not suffered enough? I want to put my hands around Carlotta's throat and squeeze but I cannot. I look at her and see the innocent little girl she once was, little Elisa so pure and clean never aware of the cruel realities of this earth.  
  
"She left you, yes, like I did. I am sorry, Erik, for everything."  
  
She places her hand on my knee. A small touch, a gentle touch, but one that means so much especially now after all that has happened. I place a trembling hand over hers just to feel her flesh, to know that she is real and not a dream as I fear.  
  
"You shouldn't be. It was not your fault. Christine did not want me. She wanted to be with her Vicomte. How could I possibly compete with his youth and beauty?"  
  
"Do not say that. You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend." 


	3. A Life Relived

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. This chapter gets a bit melodramatic towards the end but it is not the final chapter. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
"…You are a wonderful person. Any girl, any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover… and a friend."  
  
I mean every word I say. Erik does not believe me, I can see it in his eyes, but I am the one person who should know. My time with him, our friendship, is the only pleasant memory I have. Carlotta may have many admirers, people who like to be in her… in my company… but they do not make me happy. They do not flock to me because I am a pleasant companion. No. They come because I am well known and popularity brings many things but it does not bring happiness. A cliché, I know, yet it is the truth. As I child I wished only to be famous… and loved.  
  
I spent the earliest years of my life in solitude on the streets of Barcelona. My father would trick some hapless fool into lending him money on the pretence that it was to buy his daughter a new dress or pair of shoes. He would then go and spend it on wine, perhaps even a woman. The do-gooders, nuns and old spinsters for the most part, would help now and then with a crust of bread. Some had even taken it upon themselves to teach me, mostly about God and the bible. It was thanks to them that I developed a liking for reading, not just books but music. Sister Maria, a kind old lady as I remember, played the piano – her secret vice, she told me – and taught me how to read the notes on the sheet music. She was the first person to hear me sing. The students, who dreamt of a better life for all mankind, would take pity on me and use me as an example as to why the world needed to change. They, of course, did nothing else and I quickly learned not to become a part of their games.  
  
We left Spain when I was six. Although we had nothing to gain by leaving, we had everything to lose by staying. My father had upset one too many a man and therefore it was best that he left Spain for good. For a few months, we travelled with gypsies, the only people who would have my father. Our travels took us around France and I became fluent enough in the various languages and dialects we encountered. I did not give up my passion for reading or for singing. The first novel that I read was Notre- Dame de Paris though I struggled with written French; I could speak the language well enough just not read it terribly well. I understood the essence of the story but there were concepts that I could not understand. Lust, the feeling the priest had for the gypsy girl, was one emotion that I had not encountered.  
  
By the age of twelve, we had travelled through most of Europe. I spoke new languages – Russian, English, German - and read more books. Eventually we ended up in Rome. My father had discovered my talent for singing and noticed that I was developing into an attractive young woman. How could he not exploit such a treasure? I would sing for noble families, charming their young sons as my father had instructed me, to wring from them as much money as I could. Usually it did not take much effort. They would hear my voice, look upon my angelic face and hand over a purse filled with money. I hated myself for that. I hated my father more for making me do it. The veil that had blinded me to all his faults was slipping away. I could see that he cared little for me and that when he said he loved me he did not mean it. In some ways, I think he blamed me for mother's death and for looking so much like her. Rome only made things worse. It was where he had met and fell in love with her. She was a promising young singer of notable parentage, he a handsome Spanish noble. There had been no questions about their marriage. Both families had agreed that it had been the prefect match. It had been a fairy tale that ended in tragedy. Her premature death was the result of complications from the birth of her child, Elisabetta. Me.  
  
Three weeks before my thirteenth birthday I defied my father by refusing to sing for a family who had paid good money for the privilege. He flew into a rage once we were back in our little apartment, striking once, twice, three times with a riding whip. It was not the first beating I had taken from him, when he drank he hit me, but this was the first time he did not apologise for his actions. The morning after, I cuddled him and waited for him to tell me that he did not mean to hurt me but he sat, cold and uncaring, in that chair next to the window.  
  
'One day,' he had said with anger, 'you will be a woman. You will be able to make decisions for yourself. You will have men who want you and you will want them. So much like your mother and like her you will be able to have what you truly desire. Until then you will do what I say.'  
  
On my thirteenth birthday, I did what he said. When he told me that I was to go with the Englishman, I obeyed. He held me and told me to be a good girl before I left. It was the last time I saw my father alive.  
  
That same day I left the Englishman. I never did find out his name. My midnight flight from that nightmare took me to Venice. There were people there who remembered my mother or who had heard of my voice. The manager of the opera house had been a friend of my mother and offered to take care of me even letting me join the opera as a chorus girl. He was a widower and childless. I think my presence in his home made him happy. For two years, I was happy with him and my small role in the opera house but it did not last. On my return home from rehearsals one day I found him still in bed. He had died peacefully in his sleep. Of course, his relatives claimed all his possessions and I had to leave the house. I remained at the opera but my work was harder. No longer was I doing something that I loved, I was doing the only thing I knew to make ends meat.  
  
A year passed and I met Erik. At first, I had been afraid of him for he hid from my sight. When he did eventually show himself to me, I was unafraid. His voice, sweet and seductive, had reassured me. The mask did not matter, I completely understood. Everyone wears a mask but to see it physically made no difference. That is not to say that I was not curious about what lay beneath. I was immensely curious but I knew that whatever was there was bad and so I never brought the subject up.  
  
Erik and I developed a curious relationship, what I have since learned is true friendship. We did not ask much of each other but we gave all that we could to make the other happy. The only thing I asked of him was to be held and he did with reservation at first but, with confidence, he let go of his fears and held me tenderly in his arms. He asked one thing of me, something that I had never expected.  
  
'Will you love me?'  
  
"Then why did you not?" Erik looks at me intently, seeking an answer to a question he asked thirty-two years ago. I did love him, I do love him, and I have never stopped loving him. 'Will you love me?' 'I…cannot...' 'Any woman would be lucky to have you as a lover.' 'Then why did you not?' Why did I no do the only thing you asked of me?  
  
"I'm sorry, Erik," I hold my head high and hope that you appreciate the enormity of what I am about to say, "but I have always loved you."  
  
"I ask again, why did you not? Was it my face? I never meant to scare you." I watch as he lowers his head, wringing the corner of his dress shirt with his fingers. He looks so much like a child, a child who has done something so terrible that he fears the rejection of his mother. "The feelings I had for you were powerful but I knew I could never have said those words without you seeing what was under that mask."  
  
"You showed me the truth and…" I hesitate, unsure of how to put into words what I want to say. "It was never about your face, I realised from the moment that I met you that you hid some kind of deformity." I look into his eyes to see my own reflection. I am no longer a girl of eighteen. No, I am a woman, a very old, very silly, very unhappy woman. "The truth is, or was, that I could not commit myself to you. I was afraid that like other men in my life… that if I ever loved you I would lose you. I am sorry that I have to admit this now, of all times, but I was a little coward. You must believe me when I say I love you because it is the truth and always has been."  
  
"You… love… me?"  
  
I press my lips to his.  
  
"Oui." 


	4. Erik Remembers

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta or Erik.  
  
She loves me!  
  
I pull out of the kiss. Did she say she loves me?  
  
"After thirty years you decided to tell me this?" I scream at her.  
  
Enraged, I push her to the floor. She looks up as though she were a wounded animal. No, her tears will not distract me from my rage. Manipulative, cunning, horrible, little toad. Is it possible for her to be so insensitive and uncaring? What does she expect to gain from her little admission? How dare she come to my home, uninvited, and proceed to tell me that. that my heart was broken for no reason! If this were not my own home, I would walk out.  
  
My eyes turn to the heavens. I cannot bear to look at her. If I look at her, I will do one of two things - forgive her or kill her. The latter is infinitely more likely. Never have I wanted to hurt a woman as much as I want to hurt her at this very moment. Does she know the hurt she caused? I would have worshipped her, cherished her, never let any harm befall her. She would never have known a moment of sadness in my care. Perhaps I had been a boy infatuated with a beautiful woman beyond his grasp but I truly believed I loved her. Curse you, Elisa. Curse you for having the folly to come back into my miserable existence. I try to tell myself that she is not the girl to whom I willingly gave my heart. No. She is nothing more than a toad. A toad. Yes, a toad!  
  
"Erik. I." She stutters.  
  
I look down. Damn you, Elisa! Do not look at me in that way. Do not think that you will win me over with wounded expressions. Your tears have no power over me. Save them for I am no longer a boy.  
  
"Go. Leave me here."  
  
"No." She stands as a look of sheer determination washes over her face. "I will not leave you here to suffer in silence. I will stay here, with you."  
  
"Madame, you have two choices. You will leave now and leave alive or you will leave this place dead."  
  
She folds her arms in defiance. If I had the strength in me to wring her wretched neck, I would. So sure of her own abilities is she, but I know that beneath that hardened exterior she is scared. When first I had spoken to her she put on a brave face, trying to hide her initial instinct that told her to flee. Then, as now, I had been a ghost. She was unaware that I was real person. All that she knew of me then was a voice.  
  
I had been watching her perform from above the stage. Something fell from the beam on which I perched. The noise started her and my presence revealed.  
  
'Who? Who's there?'  
  
'An admirer.'  
  
My voice filled with fear. The days of my distant admiration of Elisa were well and truly over. She should have run but she stayed not caring what sorts of danger she could have been risking.  
  
'An admirer?' She echoed.  
  
I lowered myself a little closer to the stage but remained shrouded in darkness. I watched her face intently. She seemed to smile at my confession as though no one had ever appreciated her or wanted to be in her company.  
  
'Please, do not be frightened. I only wished to listen to you.'  
  
'I do not like people spying on me.' She walked around the stage, lifting up curtains, looking out to the boxes, all in a vain effort to find me. 'Show yourself or are you a ghost?'  
  
Though I knew she was a little angry with me, I could tell she found the situation deeply amusing. In all honesty, I think I sounded terrified easing any fears she had. Though I was as much at ease as she was, I could not overcome my fear of revealing myself. If I had, she would have fled without a backward glance.  
  
'I am afraid I cannot.'  
  
'Alas, you are a ghost and I shall have to run away for I am afraid of ghosts.'  
  
'No, no, I am a living creature. Yet in a sense, I suppose I am ghost. Do not fear me, I shall not hurt you.'  
  
'Do you have a name, Mr Ghost?'  
  
'Erik.'  
  
'Erik.' Again, she echoed my words. Never had anyone spoken my name with such wonder and in such a gentle tone, not even my own mother.  
  
'Forgive me for asking but do you have a name?'  
  
'Elisabetta. I prefer Elisa, though.'  
  
'Elisa.' I echoed her name in the same fashion as had mine. Elisa.  
  
I turn my back to the woman in my home. She should have remained a memory, a beautiful memory and nothing more. Oh God, why do you torment me? My body stiffens as I compose myself, pushing all thoughts of the past from my mind. This is no time to mourn the past.  
  
"Carlotta or what ever you wish to call yourself, will you please leave now. Bodies are hard to dispose of without raising suspicion and your death would be of great inconvenience."  
  
She stood but she did not leave. Her damned stubbornness, that from her years here in the opera house I had grown to find entertaining and even admirable, kept her in her place. Like a dog with a bone, I knew that she would not give in easily. I sighed. It was going to be a long night. 


	5. Leaving the Past Behind

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. . Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta. This is a short chapter. I am a bit busy with exams at the moment.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
After hours of arguing, Erik fell asleep. He rested in what I took to have been Christine's room. It was clear from the way he locked the door that he did not want me near him at least not for now. I could not blame him.  
  
'Will you love me?'  
  
'Erik… I cannot.'  
  
That night, that fateful night, I ran out of the apartment onto the street and down to the nearest inn. Like my father, I had an overwhelming urge to forget my problems with the aide of a drink. It was the first time that alcohol passed my lips but not the last. At first, I hated the taste of the alcohol, I wanted to be sick, but I continued until… well, until closing time. Hours had passed but time no longer mattered. In my drunken stupor, I had managed to stagger home only to find it empty. At first, I thought that Erik had gone for a walk but he never came back. It was only in the morning, with crystal clarity, that I realise he had left for good - his possessions were gone.  
  
My life did not change in his absence. I continued as though Erik had never been a part of it. Drink became his substitute and, like him, I kept it a secret from everyone. However, my vice left its mark on my voice. I no longer sing like an angel. It was still a good voice but not as sweet as once it had been. Through hard work and a little persuasion, the management decided to promote me. My day in the sun, so to speak, came and I gave the performance of a lifetime. The reviews were good. It was a start. My childhood dream of being a star was coming true. It replaced my thoughts of a husband and family. A husband… A family… Even though I feared commitment, I yearned for a normal life, a little child that would look up to me for guidance and love. As pathetic as it sounds, it was all I ever truly wanted. On reflection, I think that it was what Erik wanted too.  
  
On my twenty-first birthday, I received a letter from Spain. My father had died. The funeral was different from what I had imagined. There were mourners everywhere. In an effort to make something of his life my father actually worked. He built up a little business and gained the respect of the town. I was proud of him but that ended the moment I met his widow, his heavily pregnant widow. They had been married seven years and produced two sons with a third child on the way. Apparently, the little woman knew nothing of my father's previous marriage. I came as quite a shock. My father, in truth, had not changed. He continued to deceive everyone including those he claimed to love most.  
  
I did not stay. The atmosphere in my father's home was less than welcoming and my stepmother did not take kindly to my presence. Besides, I was certain she would recover from the loss of my father quickly. She was young, only five years older than I was, and could easily find another man to care for her perhaps even one closer to her own age. I had no interest in becoming friends with my brothers. The thought of my father and his perfect little life with his two sons and lovely wife made me angry. I no longer wished to be in any way connected with my father. The opera had offered me a new contract in which I would be the prima donna's understudy. It was the perfect opportunity for me to let go of my past and transform myself into a new person. I took the name of the one person in my life that had never hurt me as my father had – my mother. I became Carlotta Guidicelli. 


	6. From Venice to Paris

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
I am Carlotta Guidicelli! After drinking heavily on the journey back to Venice, I shouted at anyone who passed by "I am Carlotta Guidicelli". It felt good. I felt like I had been reborn. Carlotta was a blank canvas onto which I could paint any picture that took my fancy. The management thought I was eccentric and accepted my new identity without question. In fact, it proved to be quite a good move. People flocked to see Carlotta Guidicelli to see if she was as good as the original. Gossip, rumour and intrigue spread like an uncontrollable fire. Everyone was curious. Who was this girl? Could it be the real Carlotta Guidicelli?  
  
No one knew anything of my true past except the name of my mother and father - Carlotta Guidicelli and Marco Segarra. They were two well-known names in Italy, everyone had heard of them but knew very little of them. Mother had been a famous singer but guarded her private life fiercely. Only her closest friends and family knew the real Carlotta. The public, of course, knew very little. She married, leaving a promising career, and died in childbirth. Stories of her ghost haunting various opera houses emerged over time. A very busy spirit if she truly haunted every opera house in which she had performed. My over-imaginative mind used to think that it saw her everywhere. I would catch a glimpse of a figure only to discover it was my own reflection. Resurrecting her seemed such a good idea.  
  
As Carlotta, I became an instant success more because of the name than my actual abilities as a singer. Yet, it was not long before people came to the opera to hear my voice. A wonderful voice everyone agreed, critics and rivals alike. No one ever had a bad word to say. I cannot recall one person who did not like me, except Monsieur le Fantôme. French pig! No, I am not angry with Erik but I have feelings too. What he did, what he said, was unforgivable. Toad, indeed. How does a toad become prima donna? I am not a toad.  
  
I should not have left Venice but the opportunity to tour Europe allowed me to expand my fame beyond the borders of Venice, beyond Italy. Word of my talent spread to every corner of Europe. Fame and fortune, I had both. It should have been my mother but, in a sense, it was she, never me. As well as I could sing, it was not my voice. In taking her name, her spirit possessed me. Elisa, slowly and peacefully, died without anyone to mourn her. Should I have shed a tear? Perhaps but I was too consumed by my own power to care.  
  
With fame came the so-called friends. People came and fawned over me. Many men asked for my hand in marriage. The little part of Elisa that remained stopped me from accepting such offers. I pretended that the real reason I refused to marry was the prospect of having to end my career. No man was worthy of that sacrifice except Erik. If he asked that of me, I would do it without question. If my childish fears had not consumed me, my life would have been so different. I am on my own because of wrong decisions. I wanted someone to love me, not for my fame or my wealth but for me. Is that not what everyone wants? Alas, I was destined never to know true happiness with any man.  
  
When the new Paris Opera House was completed, the management asked that I take the position of lead soprano. I refused. Part of me did not want to settle in one place. It had been years, over twenty, since Venice. Travelling was a way of life and I did not intend to give it up. Yet there was something about the building, the atmosphere, which made me stay in Paris longer than I planned.  
  
The soprano who took the position I had refused did not last long. Erik had made sure of that. Silly little girl was highly superstitious. If the slightest thing happened, the ballet rats would blame the phantom. La Chantefleurie, as the public knew her though God only knows why she went by that ridiculous name, was highly susceptible to the little girls' rants. Being French and religious to the point of fanaticism, she believed in ghosts. Of course, Erik exploited her fears for his own amusement. Why else would he terrorise such a competent singer? She left after a nervous break down during a performance. The performance was nothing special, as I recall for I had been there, but for some reason the poor girl burst into tears. No one could stop her. She babbled on about the ghost, saying that he had promised to take her away, make her his bride of eternal darkness… or something like that. The poor little thing did not want to die and she knew that what the ghost had spoken the truth. I believe she now resides at a sanatorium in her native Lyon.  
  
The French put too much into their silly little superstitions, in my opinion. Although I am superstitious, I do have the ability to think rationally. Si! A ghost, indeed! A ghost who demands money! A ghost who can write letters! Perhaps the management should have sold tickets for those performances and not the opera. They would most assuredly have made more money that way.  
  
It was not long before the question of a replacement came up. Only one name did anyone consider and six months after La Chantefleurie's dramatic departure, Carlotta Guidicelli became lead soprano. From the moment I set foot in the opera house, it was war. Not satisfied with tormenting one soprano, the phantom decided he would pick on the new arrival. His mistake as I did not bend, I did not break. If he had not been there then I would have left within a month. Life with him was interesting - falling scenery, candles flickering in a windless room, voices without bodies. Little things that would happen, things that would have driven a lesser woman mad but not me. I was in my element. Nothing frightened me but I could pretend it had like no other. He says I cannot act. Ha! If only he knew the half of it. People expect certain behaviour from a prima donna and I lived up to every expectation.  
  
The new management changed everything. They awoke something in the phantom. No longer was it playful mischief for his amusement, no, it became deadlier.  
  
  
  
Little side note: The name La Chantefleurie comes from Victor Hugo's "Notre Dame de Paris". It is the name of La Esmeralda's mother and means flowersong. La Chantefleurie went mad because of the disappearance of her daughter, who she believed gypsies had eaten. In the end, La Chantefleurie died trying to save her daughter's life. Nothing of relevance to this story, of course. 


	7. The Phantom of the Opera part one

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. This chapter gets a bit melodramatic towards the end but it is not the final chapter. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. Some of the dialogue in this chapter is from the musical and therefore does not belong to me. In addition, my writing is getting a bit weird; at least I think it is. I think the problem may lie in my tenses. (No, I won't be seeing a doctor about it.)  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
  
  
The day the new management arrived, we were rehearsing "Hannibal". Monsieur André, one of the new mangers who claimed to be an admirer of my work, asked for a rendition of Elissa's aria from Act Three. How could I refuse?  
  
Barely had a word escaped my lips, though, when the stage echoed with the sound of something crashing. A piece of scenery fell mere inches from me. It was not hard to guess that the real star of our company was making his presence known. As was expected, I made a fuss and everyone fawned over me especially Piangi, poor, sweet Piangi. Of course the ballet rats, especially little Giry, started ranting about the phantom. Our new managers seemed to be unaware of our temperamental tormentor. The two fools tried to assure me that it was just an accident. My blood boiled. For five years, such things had happened. I could not have stayed another moment in that building to do so would have resulted in the premature death of Monsieur André.  
  
As I left, I heard Daaé sing in my place. Her voice was a wonder, if slightly unsteady perhaps through fear. She sang with purity and innocence, like an angel. It reminded me so much of my own voice before the days of Carlotta. I realised then that the end for me was near. Who would want a wretched old woman, even a famous one, when a younger and more beautiful singer was ready to take centre stage?  
  
For days, I fumed in my tiny apartment. I could not bear the thought that I would lose my position to a pitiful little girl who, six months earlier, could not sing at all. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. Finding that the new management had the de Changy family's support and that Christine was the object of the Vicomte's affections only twisted my mind further. I began to see a plot against me. It became an all-consuming obsession. Daaé, I swore to myself, would not get away with taking my place.  
  
The day after the gala, in which Christine had sung in my place to great ovation, I received a letter informing me that my time at the opera house had ended. The Vicomte and Christine, I told myself, it had to be them. I stormed into Firmin's office determined to make my feelings known. Of course, the Vicomte was there and denied all knowledge of the letter. To my astonishment I learned that Daaé had been missing since the performance, even de Changy did not know her whereabouts. I still felt in my heart that it was horrible plot by the Vicomte to put his lover in my place.  
  
Madame Giry informed us that Christine had returned but would see no one much to the young Vicomte's disappointment. I never trusted Giry. There was something about her. Perhaps it was her strict nature or the fact that she seemed to know something about the ghost. I had formed a habit of crossing myself whenever our paths crossed. As silly as it was, I believed that she was a bad omen. Terrible things happened when she was near. This day was no exception. She had brought a note from the Opera Ghost. Apparently, our gracious spectre was pleased with Miss Daaé's performance so much that I was not to play the lead in Il Muto. It was the first time the ghost ever openly admitted any dislike of me. Of course, he had tried to frighten me in the past but I had not been the only one. The ghost scared Piangi, the ballet dancers, the stagehands, everybody at some point. Never before had he singled out one person for punishment.  
  
Assured by the management that they were not taking orders from a ghost, I took my rightful place in the opera. In Il Muto, I was to play the role of the countess and Daaé the role of the pageboy. It was a mistake. We should have known better than to cross him. He had never before threatened us with disaster but tonight he promised there would if we disobeyed. I was a little on edge, snappier than usual as many of my fellow performers discovered to their great shock. At the back of my mind, a voice was screaming that I should flee the opera house. I wish I had listened to that voice. A few lines into the song, as with Hannibal, he made his presence felt.  
  
'Did I not instruct that Box 5 was to be kept empty?'  
  
I felt Christine tug at the sleeve of my costume like a frightened child.  
  
'It's him… I know it… it's him…'  
  
My patience gone, I turned on little Daaé. All restraint gone I lashed out at her.  
  
'Your part is silent, little toad!'  
  
'A toad madame?' The ghost asked. 'Perhaps it is you who are the toad…'  
  
I continued to sing until I made that horrible sound, the sound of a toad. He laughed like a maniac and shouted to the audience, 'Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!'  
  
Too afraid not to look, I watched as the chandelier began to rock from side to side. My eagerness to perform evaporated and I ran off stage, Piangi following close behind. I locked myself in my dressing room and sank to the floor. The voice! I knew the voice. Never before had I heard the opera ghost speak but instinctively I recognised the ghost.  
  
'Are you singing to bring down the chandelier?'  
  
Erik had once asked me while I tried to sing a note beyond my reach. Far above, hiding from me, he managed to shake the chandelier of the old Venice opera house. I had watched in horror, afraid that he was going to bring it down.  
  
'Stop it! Stop it right now, Erik.'  
  
He laughed manically then but stopped whatever he had been doing.  
  
'Did I frighten you, Elisa?'  
  
'You most certainly did. Now come down here before someone catches you.'  
  
'Oh, I very much doubt that anyone will ever catch me.'  
  
His belief in his own invincibility had always irritated me. I found it hard to believe that anyone could expect to escape any crime without some form of reprisal but then Erik never seemed to have a conscience like the rest of us.  
  
'One day,' I said in anger, 'you are going to be so reckless that someone will catch you and then you will pay probably with your life.'  
  
I had warned him and he chose not to listen. So be it.  
  
I lowered my head to the floor and prayed for the whole affair to be over. For six months, the opera house was quiet but the New Year brought new trouble. 


	8. Il Muto Aftermath interlude, part one

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. In addition, my writing is getting a bit weird; at least I think it is. I think the problem may lie in my tenses. Finally, I am trying to give Carlotta more reason to dig her heels in over her position than simple pride.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
Il Muto finished in grand style with a disaster beyond imagination. The chandelier fell. Fortunately, there were no fatalities though many of the patrons received minor injuries from the shards of glass. My mind does not doubt that his intention was to kill. Who, I am not sure. Perhaps he was trying to kill Christine. He may not have even had any specific person in mind, just killing whoever happened to be in his way.  
  
Fate, who rarely blessed us with her presence, seemed to smile on us that night, thankfully.  
  
As for myself, I did not see it fall for I had decided to stay safely locked in my dressing room. In that room, I lost myself in a little fantasy where no one could harm me and there I remained until the crash. When it happened, I rushed out to the stage. Christine stood a few inches from the wrecked chandelier crying into the shoulder of her precious Vicomte. The managers looked down from the vantage point of their box, a look of sheer horror etched on their worn faces. They looked as though they had aged a hundred years, the stress of the last few months clearly visible. As for the ballet rats, they huddled together crying. For the first time, there was a feeling of utter dread among all the staff of opera. Madame Giry, as always, had disappeared no doubt to report to him. Maybe it was for the best. I wrapped my arms around myself as I surveyed the stage. This opera house would never be the same again.  
  
Piangi, who I had not noticed until he grabbed my arm as a small child does when finding its mother, looked at me with a face drained of all colour.  
  
'Cara, you are well!'  
  
His arms circled my shoulders in an embrace as though he had expected to find me ill or worse.  
  
'Yes, yes of course I am.' I said gruffly, my attention turning back to the scene of such wilful destruction.  
  
'This opera house is cursed. Buquet! The chandelier!'  
  
Buquet?  
  
'What about Buquet?' My voice was a little unsure, still sore from that horrible noise that it had emitted earlier.  
  
'The ghost, he killed Buquet.'  
  
Meg Giry stood behind Ubaldo nodding her head, confirming that everything said was true. My heart sank. All this tragedy and suffering for what? A chorus girl! Yes, it was all for her, all for Daaé. There was no plot by the Vicomte to remove me from the opera it was Erik. He had fallen in love with a pretty girl who obviously did not return his feelings. Poor Erik, poor foolish Erik.  
  
***  
  
Everyone left the opera house quickly and quietly. The managers had been the first to leave with a police escort. There were questions that only they could answer. Meg Giry and the ballet rats all left together under the watchful eye of Madame Giry. Only Piangi and I remained in the building.  
  
I locked myself back in my dressing room unable to summon the courage to leave what now seemed like my prison. If I stayed at the opera, I would die by the ghost's hand but I would die without it. When I was a child, my life had been that of a swallow. I was free to go wherever my heart called me. Now I was a caged bird. My time in Paris had made me too reliant. The thought of the world outside scared me. What would become of me if pressed to leave? Where would I go? I was not young, not as strong as I had been when I first went to Venice. It was not as simple as it used to be to just pack up and leave.  
  
There was a gentle tap on my door rousing me from my self-pity. Piangi wanted to accompany me home, make sure I was safe. He worried more about my health than his own. I shouting and screaming for him to leave me in peace.  
  
'Go away. I wish to be left alone.'  
  
'Cara, please, I only wish to help.'  
  
I looked up from my hands that lay feebly on my lap. In the mirror was the image of a girl. I knew her well, of course. She was the girl who once lost the man she loved through her own folly. History was preparing to repeat itself and I would be an idle spectator unable to change its course. My head turned away from the mirror not wishing to look upon that horrible reflection.  
  
'I will be fine, I assure you.' I tried to sound positive, tried to deceive even myself that everything was well.  
  
'If you are sure then I will go.'  
  
'I am. Good night, Ubaldo.'  
  
'Si. Good night.'  
  
When I was sure that he had left I turned back to the mirror. Thirty years ago, I was Christine Daaé - my hair long and dark, my voice as clear as the clearest crystal and a face that belonged to an angel. I wonder if he asked her to love him the same way he asked me. Perhaps his bitter experience with me showed him that women are not to be trusted.  
  
My mind was in a state of disarray, torn between feelings of insecurity and sheer terror. Of course, my primary concern was myself but I could not help but think of the suffering Erik was enduring. Christine did not love him, not in the way he wanted at any rate. She wrapped up in her affection for the Vicomte de Changy.  
  
Erik had never asked anything of anyone. His pride and belief in self- reliance made sure of that. Yet he always made sure that those he cared for never wanted for anything. He must really love Daaé to go to the extremes he has.  
  
'It needs to be cared for. I am the only family it has.'  
  
'Yes, Erik, you have cared for it. Under you this little bird has flourished. Without you it would have died. Now it is time to let go. You cannot keep it locked away forever. I know you only wish to protect it from a cruel world but it needs freedom like any other creature. You understand that, don't you?'  
  
'Yes, I understand. It does not make it any easier to accept, though.'  
  
That day in Venice, all those years ago, I watched as he finally let the little bird that he had cared for from birth fly from our home. He had been a father unable to see that his child had grown, prepared to face the world outside. There is no difference between that little bird and Christine. She will leave him, I know, and go with her precious Raoul. La Esmeralda, I think jokingly, in love with her sun, he shining knight. What a tragic ending! God help us all.  
  
My eyes drifted up to the window. Outside, the stars filled the blackened sky. Soon the sun would rise bringing a new day. I do not eagerly wish to greet the day but I knew I would return to this building, to this life, for I have no other choice. 


	9. Reflection interlude, part two

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. This fan fiction story is based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and Charles Hart. It is also based on the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay. I have no permission to use the characters. No money is being made from the works of Leroux, Webber/Hart and Kay. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
Note: This chapter was going to be bigger but I've decided to break it down into smaller ones.  
  
There was to be no investigation into the incident. No one could prove that anyone had tampered with the chandelier and the government did not want tales of a ghost appearing in the press.  
  
The man responsible for the maintenance of the chandelier lost his job on grounds of incompetence. No one else would hire him as the reason for his dismissal spread to potential employers. Three days later the police recovered his body from the Seine. The ballet rats took great delight in attributing his death to the ghost. Those of us with half a brain knew better. He had committed suicide. According the press, the stress of the whole events had driven him to take his own life. How tragic to end up committing the ultimate sin because of a cruel conspiracy of which he was an innocent victim. Though I did not know him personally, I prayed for his soul and for his wife and two young children when I heard of his death. It was Madame Giry's idea to donate a sum to pay for the funeral and other expenses. Being a widow herself, she probably knew what was best or perhaps she was under orders from her master.  
  
If his death bothered the conscience of Monsieur André or Monsieur Firmin, it did not show. The managers went about their daily business as though nothing had happened. They decided that, until the installation of the new chandelier was complete, the opera house would remain closed to the public. However, that did not mean that we were to idly waste the six months it would take for repairs to be finished. No, we were to rehearse for a new production that would announce our triumphant return from disaster. In the days that followed the disaster a number of dancers left. A few stagehands and chorus members deserted the company too. Those of us who had not left the opera house after the incident were half-hearted in our enthusiasm for the new production. The curse, foretold by the Phantom, occupied the thoughts of every employee of the opera and prevented even the most hardened of performers like myself from giving our total commitment to the management.  
  
As for Christine, she remained quiet taking the role of my understudy to much disapproval. Although I never spoke of it openly, for once, I resented it. To me, it seemed that the little culprit had escaped punishment for her crime. However, my original understudy left the managers with little choice. Marie-Therese had always been a flighty little thing and her departure was of no great surprise. To me, though, it was a personal insult and a great loss. I thought she was my friend. I was mistaken.  
  
The Vicomte de Changy went to London at the request of his brother. Officially, it was to conduct "family business" but, personally, I think it was to separate the boy from his precious little Christine. All parties linked to the two lovers agreed it was for the best that the two remained away from each other. From the accounts I had heard, it had almost killed the Vicomte to say goodbye to her as he left on a ship bound for England. She talked to no one, after his departure, except to little Meg. The ballet rats' conversations, which I had overheard now and then, spoke of Christine's sadness over her great tragedy. Her Angel of Music had not appeared to her since the incident. I worried, perhaps needlessly, not for her but for him.  
  
The management, that is to say Monsieur André for Monsieur Firmin had lost all interest in anything to do with the opera, allowed me a brief absence. In light of the stress and public humiliation I had endured, it was felt that a rest would do me the world of good. Either that or rumours of my plans to leave had spread to the offices of the management. For the most, the rumour was just dreaming on the part of those who did not like me. Had it been true I am sure that they would have raised the sum to pay for my journey and wished me all the luck in the world while silently praying that I never reappeared in their lives. I did not wish to leave but I did not have the energy to argue or reassure them of my intent to stay. If I had not had a personal stake in the whole Opera Ghost affair, I would have left. It was not that I wished to save face or play the role of victim but for Erik, the poor boy I had hurt so many years ago, that I stayed. Guilt is a very powerful emotion but one that I was well acquainted. From the day I drew my first breath, I had committed a sin. The victim, the culprit - I was both. The note he had left for me in Venice still haunted me. Hate. 


	10. Reflection cont

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. In addition, my writing is getting a bit weird; at least I think it is. I think the problem may lie in my tenses. Finally, I am trying to give Carlotta more reason to dig her heels in over her position than simple pride.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
My apartment was my sanctuary, my one escape from the truth and cruelty of the real world, yet now it felt like my prison. There I did not have to be the constant performer. I could be myself. Yet, I found that to be myself was to be the girl I had been, to be Judas. Perhaps I was too hard on myself. After all, nobody gave me thirty pieces of silver for my betrayal. Was it even betrayal? I could not tell. In the night, alone with only my thoughts for company, I tore myself to pieces reviewing every tiny mistake I had made in my life. I did not wish to stay in my apartment and I had no desire to stay in Paris, or France for that matter, during my period of recuperation.  
  
Leaving my apartment I headed for a small nearby church but even its walls could offer me no sanctuary. God could not forgive me for I could not forgive myself. For years, I had carried my guilt but buried deep within my heart. I never let it dominate my life as it now did. It was frustrating. As a child, I had clear ideas of what was right and what was wrong. My father, thief and drunkard though he was, had taught me from an early age to respect the rules that governed society. He came from a respectable family his heart was always that of a gentleman. I never could understand why he broke the law while lecturing at length on the virtues of being a good citizen. When I asked him why he stole, he would tell me it was out of necessity. That explanation meant that we could eat and so I never argued. Necessity was a poor excuse but useful. I found that it could justify anything. Why did I act as I did? Necessity! I laughed at anyone who would accept that reasoning. I laughed at myself. It was now necessary for me to leave Paris.  
  
I knew I had to leave Paris and soon. The pressure was taking its toll on my health and I had taken to drinking again. Ubaldo suggested that I should try seeking peace at home. I knew he did not mean my apartment but some building that once belonged to my ancestors. Never in my life have I known a home like that. I have known many different places, some quite spectacular and others not fit for habitation. A place to call home was an alien concept to me. People identify themselves by their family, their origins, and their country. I, on the other hand, had no family, no origins and no country. Who was I? Nobody. True, by birth, I was Spanish but I felt nothing for the country. My mother was Italian and as much as I enjoyed my time there, I had no great love for it. I did not even know of other family. There were grandparents, for my father had spoken of them, though they had never made any appearance in my life. From what I heard said of my mother, she had been an only child, a spoilt, self-indulgent daughter of noble parents who had too much time and money to spend on their little princess. She smiled constantly, one of her admirers once told me, with her pretty, white teeth and her dark eyes shining brightly. The more stories I heard told of her and of her perfect life only fuelled my growing hatred of her. No, I had no great love for Italy or for my mother and her family.  
  
I knew of a family in Rome who would offer me a place to rest. My good friend Isabella, she was like a sister. She had been a chorus girl in Venice during my early days. When first I had arrived in Venice, she was the one who took me to the opera and helped me acquire a position though the management were more than happy to offer what they could to the daughter of a former prima donna. If Isabella had not found me that first night in Venice, my life would have been so very different.  
  
Isabella was the only person who could claim to know me truly. In the chorus together, we shared our secrets including Erik and even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. His voice entranced her and I dare say she would have done anything he asked but she was no fool. Isabella knew the dangers all girls faced with men and warned me to be always on my guard. When I became prima donna, Isabella was married to a rich patron of the opera ten years senior. The two had six children, four sons and two daughters, the eldest, a girl, named Elisa after her godmother. Although I had kept in contact with the family over the years, I had only seen Isabella twice since taking the position of prima donna in Paris - at my first performance and at her husband's funeral. Three years had elapsed since last we met. A few months earlier, I had received an unexpected letter from her inviting me to stay. It seemed that now was the perfect time to accept her hospitality. 


	11. Reflection cont

Disclaimer: "The Phantom of the Opera" was written by Gaston Leroux. Based on the musical "The Phantom of the Opera" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and the book "Phantom" by Susan Kay this fan story is. (Ah, Yoda speak!) I have no permission to use the characters and I am making no money out of Leroux/ALW/Kay's work. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to give Carlotta a past and let the Prima Donna have centre stage. Anything that appears in '' is remembered dialogue by Carlotta.  
  
Note: I have decided from here on to follow the events as they happen in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical and not the events of Leroux. This takes place in the six months between Act 1 and Act 2 and this part is a little bit pointless.  
  
+ Carlotta: The Story of Her Life +  
  
.  
  
The journey to Rome was long and difficult. Through France I travelled by train in a carriage with two rich women who, on recognising me as an opera singer, looked down their noses. I was ostracised from all conversations that took place not that I would have wanted to participate in their frivolous discussions of the latest fashions or of their summer spent surrounded by the beauty of Switzerland. They tried in vain to provoke me into an argument with comments that attacked my very character. One of them, a woman of whom I can only say that her dress showed more style and taste than her manners, dared to bring up the subject of Daaé but I was not for falling into their trap. I smiled, said that the girl showed promise, and turned my attention back to my book. By sheer accident in my haste to leave, I packed several volumes of Jane Austen. God knows why for I detest most English writers. Yet "Pride and Prejudice" seemed oddly appropriate for this journey. As I looked across at my travelling companions, I could almost see the spectres of Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst staring back at me. An amusing thought that served as my only grip on my much-frayed temper. Oh my poor nerves, as Mrs Bennet would say.  
  
At Nice, I was obliged to change my mode of transportation from rail to road. The carriage was uncomfortably hot and my travelling companions made light of this at every possible opportunity. Both the moans of the people and the intense heat wore at my poor nerves. Not even Austen could elevate my dark mood. Consequently, I found myself questioning my reasons for making this insufferable journey. I could not turn back, I reminded myself, for I had sent word of my intentions to Isabella. To turn back would be rude and an insult to one of my few trusted friends. What was waiting for me in Paris? An empty apartment. False friends. Rehearsals. Endless rehearsals. No! No matter how uncomfortable I was it was better to be here than back in Paris.  
  
.  
  
Tired and dirty, I looked among the crowd of people for my friend. Isabella has not change a bit since last I had seen her. She was still a short, plump woman with rosy cheeks and a smile that only comes from a happy family life. With her was a young lady who had been barely a child when last I had seen her. Rosalind was now a young woman of fourteen and was now very tall. Her eyes were those of her father but the smile belonged to her mother. The youngest of six children, Rosalind was a bit of a late arrival but she was the joy of both her parents. I smiled warmly as they approached me. It felt good to be among people I knew well.  
  
"Welcome back, Elisa." Isabella said as she embraced me. "I take it that you are glad that your journey is finally over."  
  
"Oh, quite." I turned to look at Rosalind. "And you, my child, have grown considerably since last we met. You are now taller than your elder sister, I imagine. I suppose I shall have to have a dress maker adjust the dress I have brought you from Paris."  
  
"A dress? From Paris?" Her eyes sparkled at the announcement. Even though I had no children of my own and was oblivious to the fact that I may have nieces and nephews of my own, I loved to play aunt to Isabella's children. Having no brothers or sisters Isabella was happy for me to fill that role.  
  
"Rosa, thank Elisa for such a gift."  
  
"Oh, yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you!"  
  
As Isabella and Rosalind led the way, I watched with interest at the ease in which mother and daughter conversed. I envied them. I had neither a mother nor a daughter. Though I had no choice in the former, I could have easily had the latter. And what of poor Erik? While my situation, to some extent, was of my own choosing there was no choice for him. Poor Erik, poor damned Erik. My life did not seem so bad in comparison to his. I did not have to hide myself away. I was not hated and feared. Well, some feared me but that is for entirely different reasons. My confusion and conflicting feeling were exhausting. Fighting with myself became harder and harder.  
  
I would have to discuss this with Isabella. For everything, she had an answer. That is not to say that she was a know-it-all. Her advice was astute and normally based on her own experiences. She would know what to do. She always did. But I did not know how she would respond to the knowledge that Erik once again appeared in my life. After all, Isabella was the person left to pick up the pieces of my life the last time. She had been the one to help me cope with my increasingly problematic behaviour. If it had not been for her assistance, in all likelihood, I would have been one more lost soul selling my body on the streets of Venice. Once I had time to rest, I would approach Isabella with my problems. First, I had to rest. 


End file.
